


Bailing Out

by junes_discotheque



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Degradation, Depression, Drinking, Gangbang, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, the porn cometh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy winds up in jail after trying to drink away his problems. Hamlin shows up to bail him out. (Slight A/U from 'Pimento' on.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt to deal with my Jimmy feels and Hamlin feels and Jimmy/Hamlin feels post-Pimento. I was shipping it before it was cool, yo. (Slight A/U since this was started after Pimento and before Marco.)

There are bars on the door.

Jimmy's lucid enough now to realize he's in jail and to start piecing together the last few hours. He mostly remembers a whole lot of alcohol and flashing lights (though whether the lights were from the last bar or the cops who picked him up in the end, he's not entirely sure. He's only mostly confident cop cars don't have flashing green lights, but he's also mostly sure he couldn't identify the color green if he were face-down in the grass). He remembers a phone call.

It probably wasn't to Chuck, he thinks, because the memory of the phone call isn't laced with anger and betrayal and a vicious nausea that's not entirely from the series of Jagerbombs he did with a couple frat boys (he thinks—the letters on their shirts looked vaguely Greek, but by that point he couldn't actually read English, so he's just guessing here. They were drinking Jager, though, so he's willing to bet). Which means he called Kim. It wasn't on his phone, he knows that at least, so it was after he was arrested.

Jimmy rubs a hand over his face and immediately regrets it. The room spins and he has to fight not to vomit on the floor of the holding cell. He hopes Kim shows up soon—being here is one more reminder that everything Chuck said about him was true—and at the same time, he hopes she takes her time. Hopes she doesn't have to drag him out of here while he's still so fucking drunk.

He's still not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed when the door to his cell creaks open. He lifts his head and tries to open one eye.

“Mr. McGill?” the cop asks. The kid has wide eyes and peach fuzz and Jimmy feels even more pathetic, though he's pretty sure by now that isn't actually possible. He's hit rock fucking bottom here. Even his own name makes him feel sick.

“It's Jimmy,” he groans out, and somehow manages to sit up without puking or falling over.

“Your attorney posted bail.”

“So I'm free to go?”

“Yeah. He's waiting outside. Come on.”

Jimmy drops his head, grabs his coat, and stumbles out after the kid. He makes it almost out of the holding area before it hits him.

“Wait. _He?_ ”

Jesus Christ,  _no._ He called  _Kim._ If she—if this is her way of trying to fix—

“Jimmy?”

\- - 

Jimmy has never been so happy to see Howard Hamlin in his  _life._

He's also not even remotely happy to see him, but given a choice between Chuck and Hamlin, well, this week, Hamlin wins out. 

“Hey, Howard,” Jimmy mutters, staring at the stained concrete tiles. One of them is peeling off the floor. “Kim call you?”

“No. She forwarded her calls to me. I'm the one you talked to, remember?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Guess not. Why'd she forward her calls?”

“She has court in two hours. Jimmy...”

Hamlin trails off. Jimmy glances up, finally, and tries not to be too taken aback at Hamlin in a t-shirt and jeans and a worried expression. He looks like he wants to say something else—apologize, maybe, for Chuck being an ass, or his part in the whole thing, or... Shit, maybe he just wants to chew Jimmy out for proving he's never going to be anything but a colossal fuck-up who constantly needs to be dragged out of jail.

“I'll pay you back. The bail, I'll pay you back.”

“Let's just get you home, okay?” Hamlin says. Jimmy sighs and drops his head again. _Home._ He wonders if he could just direct Hamlin to some random street, make him drop him off at a nice little house and then walk the rest of the way to the nail salon—or to the nearest bus bench, where he can pass out and _hopefully_ not get arrested again for vagrancy or something.

Yeah, that's not going to work.

Besides, Hamlin already knows how pathetic he is. Was probably laughing at him this whole time—poor, naïve Jimmy, working so hard to care for a brother who couldn't give a shit about him, pretending to be a  _real lawyer,_ what's one more indignity? 

He lets Hamlin help him into his car. Jimmy's pretty sure his Esteem is parked behind some taco joint, but he'll be damned if he can remember which one. He tries to care that he might end up losing his car and fails. He's already alone, living in a repurposed boiler room, and after the week he's had he's pretty much burned all his clients.

(He's not exactly proud of how all that went down, but he's never been great at not lashing out at anyone within arm's reach.)

Hamlin slides into the driver's seat and starts the engine. He gives Jimmy one more sidelong glance, starts to say something, and turns on the radio instead. 

\- - 

They drive in silence except for the NPR guy reading about the  _situation_ in the Middle East, and Jimmy has the horrible thought that really, he wouldn't mind if they just bombed the entire godforsaken country. The sun is peeking over the mountains. 

Hamlin pulls in front of the nail salon and Jimmy realizes he never told Hamlin where he lives. He's not surprised. Of course, Hamlin would know. Jimmy sighs and stares at his fingers.

“D'you—d'you want to come in?” he says softly. “I don't--”

_I don't want to be alone,_ he wants to say, and doesn't. 

Hamlin understands anyway. “Let's get you inside,” he says, and Jimmy tries not to be grateful for Hamlin putting on a great show of helping his drunk ass inside. He tries not to wince when Hamlin pushes his desk and chairs aside and unfolds the couch bed, tries not to think about how Hamlin knew it unfolded like that. Of course, maybe he just assumed Jimmy wouldn't sleep on a plain sofa and took a chance, but it  _feels_ like he knew.

Jimmy wonders if Hamlin's been stalking him.

“Here, sit down. I'll get you some water. You need to hydrate.”

“I don't think that's gonna prevent the hangover.”

“Water's important,” Hamlin says, and leaves. Jimmy sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed, throws his jacket on the desk and unbuttons his shirt. He strips down to his undershirt and boxers while Hamlin's gone.

It's strange, he thinks, how much he's kind of  _enjoyed_ Hamlin taking care of him like this. It must be incredibly out of his way; he could easily have let Jimmy dry out in jail overnight, let him find his own way out, or tell Kim after  _court_ that hey, by the way, Jimmy went on a bender when his brother told him what everyone else already knew and he's in jail. Again.  _Fucking again._

But instead, Hamlin showed up at five in the morning to post bail and take him home, and that's a kindness Jimmy doesn't really know what to do with. He's used to being dragged out of jail, but the lack of disappointment and lectures and threats is new. New and  _confusing._

Hamlin returns with a plastic cup of cucumber water and places it on the table. He stands over Jimmy, his blond hair shining like a halo in the dim early morning light, and Jimmy almost laughs at the cliche—is Hamlin supposed to be his guardian angel? 

“Thank you,” Jimmy croaks out. “Really.”

“It's not a problem.”

“It _is,_ though. I'm a massive problem. And you don't even _like_ me. So why--”

Hamlin sighs. “Chuck is my friend. I did—what I did—for him, because he asked me to. But that doesn't mean I wanted you to ever find out. It may not have been to protect you, not at first, but... If it had been up to me, you would've had a place at HHM. If you wanted it. An internship, maybe, leading to junior associate. I really did admire--” He rubs his forehead. “Anyway. I never wanted you to find out.”

“Okay,” Jimmy says, quiet, because he doesn't know what to _do_ with this. He still hates Hamlin, still feels the anger coiling deep in his gut, but now there's something _else_ there, and he's staring up into Hamlin's face and until he dies he won't ever be able to explain why, but his hands somehow make their way to Hamlin's belt buckle and he's fumbling with the over-complicated platinum clasp.

“Jimmy--” 

Hamlin brushes his hands aside, firm but not angry, and when Jimmy stops burning with humiliation long enough to look at his face, he only sees concern. Somehow it's worse.

“You need to sleep,” Hamlin says.

“I'm sorry.”

Hamlin dips his head, curls his hand around the back of Jimmy's head, presses a soft kiss to his forehead. “I'm not saying no. If you still want—when you're sober, when you've been able to think it over—you have my number.”

The part of Jimmy that still hates him thinks  _of course Hamlin wouldn't say no to a blowjob from his enemy,_ but it's sort of quiet and half-hearted. Somehow, he believes Hamlin. 

“Yeah,” Jimmy says. Hamlin nods.

\- - 

For the first time since he left Chuck's house, Jimmy sleeps peacefully.

(He does wind up having to take the sheets to the cleaner's in the morning, but he also has a voicemail from Hamlin, so it's definitely worth it.)


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Jimmy, it's Howard. Just wanted to make sure you know your court date is set for May 2 nd at 6 P.M. I know you probably don't want me involved, but I have to take care of a... minor traffic violation that day, so... you know what they say about lawyers who represent themselves, right? Let me know. And Jimmy... Take care of yourself, okay?”_

Hamlin stares at his phone for another couple seconds before shaking his head and hanging up. It's not anything near what Jimmy's been dealing with, but the last week has _not_ been great. Kim keeps walking by his office with this _look_ on her face, he can't be anywhere near the Sandpiper case without feeling guilty, and last night he passed on a blowjob from the guy who looks at him and sees a mortal enemy.

There are so many things he regrets. Letting Chuck use him as a scapegoat, letting himself be blackmailed (as if he _could_ be, as if he couldn't pull a gun of his own), those are pretty high on the list. But it's what he gave up that haunts him the most, and tonight, feeling Jimmy's hands on him again, it's brought everything rushing back with brutal clarity.

\- - 

They weren't lovers. That's the first thing. They weren't lovers, and they weren't friends.

In the weeks after Jimmy quit HH&M, Hamlin put together a timeline. He figures the first time was right around when Jimmy graduated from law school. The associates liked to gather in a bar a couple blocks away from the office. Sometimes Hamlin ducked in for a few minutes. He always left far before anyone could get completely plastered and make an ass of themselves in front of their boss, but he felt it was important to be approachable. So he'd go in once a month or so, accept a free drink, and play nice for fifteen minutes before leaving his half-full glass on the bar and going home.

That night, he'd been accosted almost the second he opened the door. It was five-thirty. They couldn't possibly have been at this long, but there were several rows of empty shot glasses lined up on the booth table by the window, and Jimmy was holding one more. He looked over his shoulder at Kim and the mail-room guys. Kim gave him a half-smile and a shrug. He sighed.

“ _How_ ard!” Jimmy slurred, shoving the shot glass into his palm. “Come join us!”

“No, no, I really can't,” Hamlin must have protested, maybe even harder than he remembers, because he _does_ remember the look on Jimmy's face. For a second or two, before a wide grin chased away the insult.

“C'mon. We're _cel-e-bra-ting,_ ” he said, enunciating almost perfectly except for the long slur of the first syllable.

“Celebrating what?”

Jimmy pushed his face in close and Hamlin tried to scoot away, but Jimmy was just _there,_ holding onto his shoulders, liquor breath burning so close to Hamlin's skin. “'s a _secret,_ ” he said. “Don' tell Chuck.”

“Tell Chuck what?”

“No, _no._ I want to surprise him. So _shh,_ ” Jimmy said. Hamlin knew this was nothing good, and when he remembers that night, every time, he tries to make himself turn around and walk out.

Of course, that _actual_ night, he'd ended up letting Jimmy talk him into doing shots. Though _talk into_ was probably the wrong word, because Hamlin had done the first one pretty much right after Jimmy suggested it. And then couldn't stop, taking every one that Jimmy offered. God, the _names_ of some of those. They got filthier and filthier as Jimmy got drunker, and Hamlin couldn't stop even if he'd wanted to.

He couldn't stop when Jimmy pushed him into the dark, dank bathroom and kissed him with way too much tongue and way too little pretense. Or when Jimmy, his grip surprisingly sure for someone who couldn't aim his mouth right, shoved his hand into Hamlin's pants and grabbed at his dick.

He jerked Hamlin off with zero finesse and several long pauses, as if his drunk brain kept forgetting where he was and what he was doing. At some point, Hamlin got one of his thighs between Jimmy's legs, and Jimmy rutted against him, moaning soft little sighs and trying to suck kisses into Hamlin's neck. It wouldn't leave marks, for which Hamlin would be both grateful and disappointed.

Jimmy came first, spilling into his pants and slumping uselessly against Hamlin. He'd had to get himself off after that, which didn't take too long with Jimmy's clear eyes so close, his face so open and soft, nothing at all like the snarky little loudmouth who'd only gotten a job because his big brother insisted.

_Fuck._

_Big brother._

That was the first time Hamlin thought Chuck was probably going to kill him. It wouldn't be the last, and would become the prevailing theme of... whatever came after that night. Hamlin had made a half-attempt to get Jimmy to clean up, before giving in and just handing him off to Kim. He'd gotten a cab home, and in the morning, the only evidence of the previous night was the dark shadows under Jimmy's eyes. He never said a word. Even when it happened again, the night this _thing_ between them began was never spoken of. Hamlin often wondered if Jimmy even remembered it, then figured maybe he was too embarrassed about coming in his pants and leaving Hamlin to finish himself, then eventually stopped wondering at all.

\- - -

The second time was after he failed the bar the first time. He remembered, because there was a small party of mini-cupcakes and soda in the kitchen for two of the summer associates who had just gotten the letters telling them they passed. He shook their hands, congratulated them, wished them luck, and took a cupcake and a can of Sprite back to his office.

It was close to seven before Hamlin finally glanced up from his computer. Standing in the doorway, shirt undone, tie shoved in his pocket, was Jimmy. His face was hidden in the deep shadows of the dark office. Hamlin cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” Jimmy said, his voice cracking like he'd been crying for hours and only just remembered how to speak. “You probably wanna go home, huh?”

Hamlin sighed. “It's fine. What can I do for you?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Not—it's not what you can do, it's what _I_ can do,” he said, stepping into Hamlin's office and closing the door behind him. He took cautious steps up to Hamlin's desk, wringing his hands together. Hamlin could see his face now, and well—his first impression hadn't exactly been wrong. Jimmy looked _wrecked._ His hair was a mess, his eyes were red and swollen, and he was visibly trembling.

He pushed Hamlin's chair out, swiveled it so Hamlin was facing him, and dropped down to his knees with a _thud_ that made Hamlin wince. “Jimmy—”

“Shut up,” Jimmy suggested, pulling at Hamlin's belt. “God, just—everyone, just _shut up,_ ” and Hamlin had no idea what that was about, but with Jimmy's hands so close to his dick, and knowing _exactly_ where this seemed to be heading, Hamlin wasn't about to try for a heart-to-heart here. They didn't do that. They did _professional courtesy_ and _boiling dislike_ and _sloppy drunk handjobs_ (once).

So he wasn't going to say anything that would keep Jimmy from getting his mouth on his rapidly hardening cock. He didn't try to help, either, even though Jimmy was shaking so hard he could barely get Hamlin's zipper down, but eventually he managed it, pulled out Hamlin's semi and wrapped his lips around the head.

He shuffled closer, taking Hamlin's dick right down his throat.

His hands grabbed Hamlin's hips, encouraging him to fuck Jimmy's mouth, and Hamlin did, gripping Jimmy's hair tight in his fist and jerking up into that gorgeous heat. Jimmy choked, and his eyes watered, and there was spit and precome dripping down his chin, but he was rutting against Hamlin's foot, so he didn't feel too bad about taking what was offered.

Later, much later, much too long after he should've done something, he'd realize Jimmy had wanted to punish himself.

But there, in that moment, the only thing Hamlin cared was that Jimmy didn't stop, and when he finally came, spilling into Jimmy's mouth while Jimmy swallowed in deep, desperate gulps, he didn't bother checking to see if Jimmy had gotten anything out of it either.

He'd left before Hamlin could catch his breath.

(He found a dark spot on his shoe when he got home, realized Jimmy did get off on it, and wondered if it meant something that both times, he'd come in his pants with no help from Hamlin.)

\- -

Hamlin pulls into his parking spot in front of HH&M and runs his fingers through his hair. He should probably drop by his house, he knows, but that will just give him more time to _think,_ and right now, the only thing he wants to think about is the Sandpiper files sitting in his office and delegating responsibilities. (Of course, thinking about Sandpiper can only mean thinking about Jimmy, but he hasn't gotten this far without learning how to compartmentalize.) He keeps a spare suit in his office for days that begin with nine holes at Sandia. It doesn't have to be a _thing._

He checks his phone five times on the way in, even though he knows Jimmy is sleeping off his breakdown.

\- -

At noon _precisely,_ he calls to his secretary that he's going to lunch, and takes a drive.


	3. Chapter 3

The sheets on Jimmy's bed are clean.

He has no messages from clients on his machine or his cell phone, which isn't surprising—they're probably all trying to process his... _breakdown,_ for lack of a better word... and they'll call or have family call later to fire him. Just as well. After his talk with Chuck, he's been starting to feel less and less like elder law is really what he's meant to be doing.

(Jimmy does his best not to think about what he's probably _really_ meant to be doing, namely, scamming people and passing out in bars and generally proving Chuck right.)

It's those thoughts—the ones he's _patently ignoring—_ that make what happened with Hamlin hit home. He remembers their last _encounter,_ a few weeks before he passed the bar. It had been so different from all the other times Hamlin asked him to stay late ( _stay late,_ in an office where half the employees generally didn't leave until seven and Hamlin himself not done until even later, translating into _get dinner and come back around eight_ ). They'd been meeting up after hours for about a year beforehand for quick handjobs and blowjobs, but it was always rushed, and as much as Jimmy often wondered what it would be like to have Hamlin bend him over his awful desk and shove his dick in him, that was a line they never crossed. They barely even kissed, really, after the first time in the bar bathroom. Sometimes Hamlin bit bruises into the soft skin of Jimmy's chest or back, and sometimes he brushed his lips lightly over Jimmy's before kicking him out (or before Jimmy kicked himself out), but they never really _kissed._

But last night, that kiss Hamlin pressed to Jimmy's forehead, it _felt_ like more. Like maybe, if they're starting to exchange words that aren't insults and poison, they could _be_ more. And honestly, Jimmy's not sure how he feels about that. He's not sure how he feels about _Hamlin._ Yeah, Chuck was the one who didn't want Jimmy around, but Hamlin didn't have to... He could've fought harder, maybe. If he really gave a shit.

He should call Hamlin and tell him to fuck off.

(He knows before he even completes the thought that he won't. Because now he's thinking about _the last time,_ and as always, he's so damn turned on that almost forgets what an unmitigated asshole Hamlin is.)

\- -

Hamlin drives around in a wide, looping figure-8 before finally deciding on his destination. He won't go see Jimmy. He wants to, desperately, misses what they had and is thrilled that Jimmy might forgive him, but—Jimmy was drunk last night. Too much has happened. It isn't remotely in his nature, but Hamlin knows he can't push. Can't give Jimmy any kind of _hard sell._

So he goes to Chuck's instead. He parks his car across the street and waves at Chuck's new errand-boy as the kid gets in his car. He's the nephew of one of the partners, a communications major at UNM who, for some ungodly reason, dreams of being a P.A. Hamlin figures if the kid can handle Chuck, he can handle _anyone._ So far, he doesn't think there have been any complaints, but as he hasn't actually spoken to Chuck since Chuck came to the HH &M offices, he could be in for an earful.

Hamlin's palms are sweating. He wipes them on his pants. Remembers the look on Jimmy's face when they spoke in his office, the crushing misery that wouldn't go away, the hopeless resignation, and that's _more_ than enough to get him to cross the street, throw his phone and keys and watch in the mailbox, and storm up to the front door.

Chuck does _not_ look happy to see him. It's almost enough to send him running back to his car as he's horribly, painfully reminded of the last time he and Jimmy were... whatever they had been. Hamlin had just completed a huge settlement, papers signed and notarized and copies sent off to all parties. Money to be collected and distributed over the next month. And a hell of an end-of-year bonus to the entire firm.

And so, naturally, he'd wanted to celebrate. Oh, there would be _official_ celebrations later—lunch for the associates, a dinner for the partners—but that night he wanted something _private._ Something special. He and Jimmy had just passed their one year anniversary (such as it was, not that Hamlin ever paid much mind to those kinds of things, but he'd glanced at his calendar last week and realized it had been one year since Jimmy gave him a shitty, drunken handjob in a bar bathroom, and he felt like that was some kind of milestone) and in all that time, Hamlin had never once seen Jimmy naked. Had never even seen his _dick,_ come to think of it, since most of the time all Jimmy really wanted was to suck Hamlin off, and it's not like Hamlin was going to turn that down. The rest of the time Jimmy used his hand, and once, convinced Hamlin to get himself off and come on Jimmy's face.

(Now that he knows Jimmy's mental state during most of those encounters, he doesn't really want to think about what might have happened leading up to that night.)

The point is. The point _was._ Hamlin had been thinking about what might be under his cheap shirts and cheaper pants, and it was getting far too distracting. He had to know. And so, that night, he asked Jimmy to stay late. More specifically, he asked Jimmy to come to his office at six. The deal was closed, it would be an early night, and he was far too impatient to wait an extra two hours when no one would bother him anyway.

“Close the door,” he said, when Jimmy finally poked his head in thirteen minutes after six. Jimmy did so, then turned around, still hovering by the door. His right hand shook restlessly by his side and he worried his lower lip between his teeth. Hamlin grinned.

He _stalked_ over to Jimmy, enjoying the way he kept fidgeting, trying to back up against the wall without looking like he was trying to get away. He stopped about two feet in front of him.

“Give me your shirt.”

“What?”

“Your shirt.” Hamlin's smile widened. “I want to see you.”

Jimmy gulped then, and for a moment, Hamlin thought Jimmy was going to say no and go for another blowjob (and the fact that having Jimmy's mouth on his dick had become the _disappointing_ option was... kind of amazing, really). But he didn't. He undid his tie with shaking fingers, loosening the knot and pulling it over his head. He looked at it like he wasn't sure what to do with it.

Hamlin gently plucked the tie from Jimmy's hands, folded it, and placed it on his coffee table. He gave Jimmy an encouraging smile, which Jimmy returned (though hesitantly).

“So, I don't know what Chuck told you about me, but I was never actually a stripper in Cicero,” Jimmy said, his voice pitching a little higher at the end of the sentence. Hamlin tucked his hands in his pockets. “I just don't want you to get your hopes up. There is absolutely no chance this is going to be sexy. Or graceful. Or anything but awkward and embarrassing for both of us.”

Hamlin shook his head. “I just want to see you. That's all.”

Jimmy laughed. “Oh. That's _all._ Sorry to break it to you, Howard, but I'm not exactly hiding a six-pack under here.”

“If you're uncomfortable--”

“I'm not uncomfortable,” Jimmy said, too quickly to be anything but defensive. “I just don't want to disappoint you. Don't want you to _be disappointed,_ I mean.”

And wow, Hamlin didn't want to go anywhere _near_ that statement. He still remembers it, sometimes, the panic on Jimmy's face when he realized he just bared a little too much of his soul. He wonders, too, if maybe he should have said something, but back then they were nothing but an illicit office tryst, and Hamlin hadn't exactly signed up for dealing with Jimmy's emotional baggage.

\- -

Now, though, he's sitting in Chuck's house, feeling like he's sixteen and meeting his girlfriend's dad for the first time, and wondering why he ever thought this was a good idea.

“So,” Hamlin says, when Chuck finally sits down across from him. “Jimmy knows.”

“Did you talk to him?” Chuck asks.

“I did.” It's clear Chuck wants to know more, but he won't ask, and there's no way Hamlin's offering anything else. Chuck doesn't need to know, and Jimmy would never forgive him. Even if it seems like he's forgiving Hamlin for his part in the whole mess, it's more than likely just Jimmy clinging to whoever's close and not his brother, and if Hamlin does _one more thing_ to make Jimmy remember how Hamlin was never on his side...

“Why are you here, Howard?”

Ah, yes. Why he's here. “I remember when you asked me to talk to him,” he says. “When you told me to inform him he had no place at HH&M. And I remember that I _forgot,_ for a while, why I let you talk me into that. Why I was so angry that you did. But... recent events... have made things more clear than they've been in a long time.” He sighs. “It's over, Chuck. Jimmy knows what you are now. He doesn't know what you did to make sure I'd cooperate, but he will soon.”

“You and him—”

“That remains to be seen. For now, let's just say... Now that Jimmy knows, the rest of the partners know, and most of them aren't too happy. Back then, they didn't care about one mail clerk not getting an associate position, but now they know that you denied your brother out of _spite--_ ”

Chuck slams his hand on the table. “It wasn't spite, Howard! He's _not a lawyer._ He conned you. He would've ruined you if I hadn't stepped in!”

“And threatened to ruin me first. Yes, I know. And maybe it wasn't spite, but that's what they're thinking. The blackmail with regard to his personal life doesn't look too great either.”

“They won't be accepting of your indiscretions.”

Hamlin shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm thinking that won't be the biggest issue.” He clears his throat. “Now. You're still on the Sandpiper case, if you want to be. Nothing else will be said about this mess. And you stay away from Jimmy.”

\- -

Hamlin drives around HH&M's block three times before he stops shaking enough to go back inside, then sits in his car for another fifteen minutes, and finally goes in through the back and up to his office. It means he passes the absolute minimum number of people on his way in, the vast majority of whom are sitting in cubicles with their backs to him and glued to phones and computers.

He considers it a major victory that he doesn't have to speak to anyone, regardless. He closes the door behind him, throws his coat and keys and case on one of the white chairs, and slumps down in another one. He should check his messages. He should really, _really_ check his messages.

But there's a chance one of them could be from Jimmy, and he needs a little bit more time before he faces whatever Jimmy has to say to him. Whether he still wants Hamlin in the sober light of day or wishes Hamlin would just fuck off permanently now. Or some third option. He closes his eyes and wishes—not for the first time—that he hadn't agreed to the office alcohol ban. Because if it's the first—if Jimmy calls and still wants something even once he's sobered up and had a chance to think—it won't be like it was before. Hamlin's determined of that. He saw something, the last time they were together, and there's no chance he's giving that up to go back to rushed blowjobs and walks of shame through the HH&M parking lot.

\- -

Jimmy had finally gotten the buttons of his shirt undone, despite the shaking of his hands, and though Hamlin pointed out (multiple times) that he didn't want to make Jimmy do anything he was uncomfortable with, it almost seemed like Jimmy _got off_ on doing shit that made him uncomfortable.

“On the couch, please. Spread it out,” Hamlin said, once the shirt was finally off. Jimmy clutched it to his chest, reminding Hamlin of shy girls he dated as a teenager who didn't want their new boyfriend to see their breasts hadn't come in yet. It was almost endearing, in a strange kind of way. “Then come stand over here.”

Jimmy did so, perfectly, then came to stand in front of Hamlin, just barely close enough to touch. Hamlin smiled and ran his fingertips over Jimmy's collarbone, down his clavicle, to his soft belly. Jimmy squirmed a little at his touch, his fists clenching by his sides. “Okay?” Hamlin asked.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, his voice high and strangled. Hamlin tried not to look too pleased—that was definitely a good sound. He ran his thumb over the button of Jimmy's pants.

“Now these,” Hamlin said.

It took a little bit of coaxing to get Jimmy to undress the rest of the way, to kick off his shoes and socks and pants, and a little more to get him to rid himself of his boxer-briefs so that Hamlin could finally get a look at his cock. He'd felt it enough, the hard length rutting against his leg while Jimmy sucked him, but actually _seeing_ it—Hamlin had no idea why he hadn't insisted on this earlier. His own selfishness fucking him over again, he supposed.

Jimmy's cock was gorgeous. Perfectly proportioned, thick but not intimidating, smooth and flushed red as it curved up, half-hard, towards Jimmy's stomach. Next time, Howard was definitely going to insist on tasting it. But he had _plans_ for that night, and as distracting as Jimmy's dick was, he wasn't going to stray from them.

“Sit down,” Hamlin said, gesturing towards where Jimmy had laid out his shirt. Jimmy flushed a little bit with dawning comprehension and did so, his legs parted just slightly, and Hamlin took the seat across from him. “Show me,” Hamlin said. “Show me how you make yourself come.”

Jimmy threw him a slightly incredulous look, though he was clearly too turned on to follow through with a comment, and the blush on his cheeks deepened. He spread his thighs and gripped his cock firmly in his right hand. “Are you sure--” Jimmy started, and seemed to rethink. “Don't you want me to do anything for you?”

“I told you what I want,” Hamlin said. “I want to see you come.” He sat down in the chair opposite Jimmy and folded his hands on his knees. Jimmy swallowed hard, but he nodded and started moving his fist on his cock. He was still looking everywhere but Hamlin's face, his gaze jerking erratically all over Hamlin's office, and his hand keeping a steady if lacking rhythm on his cock.

“Jimmy,” Hamlin said, pitching his voice low and authoritative, testing a theory. “Look at me.”

Jimmy's head snapped up instantly, his gaze meeting Hamlin's, his eyes wide and needy. He let out a strangled little whimper and his hand picked up speed.

“Good,” Hamlin whispered. Jimmy choked, his face turning even redder, and he dropped his head but kept his eyes on Hamlin's. He smiled encouragingly. “That's good, come on. I want to see you. C'mon, Jimmy. Come for me.”

It took a couple more strokes, Jimmy's thumb playing at the head of his dick, before he finally came. His mouth dropped open in a silent, choking gasp, his whole body shaking as he spilled, hard, over his fingers and his chest and the shirt protecting the chair.

As he came back to reality, he said nothing about the shocked, horrified look Hamlin had worn for a split second, nor did he say anything about how Hamlin was very clearly pretending nothing was wrong. He had a strange, dopey grin on his face.

“Can I—for you?” Jimmy asked awkwardly.

Hamlin shook his head, forcing out a smile. “That was perfect, Jimmy. Just what I wanted. Come on, let's get you cleaned up. I think I have a spare shirt here somewhere.”

\- -

He'll have to tell Jimmy eventually. He got away with keeping it from him, back then, but now that so many truths have been revealed, it's pointless to think he could keep it from him.

As horrifying as it is.

As horrifying as it _was,_ seeing Chuck's face through a crack in the _unlocked door,_ while Jimmy orgasmed across from him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make note of updated tags. There is some... intense fantasy here, people. Tread carefully :)

Jimmy lies back against the cushions on his foldout bed, his legs tangled in the clean sheets. He spends a few moments squirming around on the uncomfortable mattress, trying to find a position where the springs don't dig into his back and shoulders and hips.

 

He's only mildly put out that Hamlin has been avoiding him. He knows the voicemail he left was kind of intense and he doesn't blame Hamlin for deciding he doesn't want to deal with it—with _him._ He also gets that maybe calling Hamlin's office four times in the last day and a half is starting to reach 'stalking' levels of crazy. Even though he asked Hamlin's secretary to please not say anything when he was informed that _sorry, honey, he's in a meeting_ or _he's on the phone_ or _he's taking a long lunch,_ Jimmy sincerely doubts she didn't.

 

So, fine. All of that, fine. No more than he expected.

  
Which brings him to this morning and Hamlin ducking him in court. Conspicuously. And sure, maybe he was just busy, but Jimmy can tell when a person's avoiding someone. He's a master of it himself. An he's had it done to him too many times to count.

  
So yeah. He's not stupid.

 

He should've known better than to think Hamlin would want to start back up again, with him. He remembers how on edge Hamlin had been in the weeks following their _last time,_ after he stripped Jimmy bare in more ways than one. He remembers how relieved Hamlin had looked when he finally had an excuse to get rid of him.

 

Not that he needed one. All Hamlin really needed was to tell Jimmy what he really thought of him and Jimmy would have gone. Happily. _More_ than happily, if he's completely honest.

 

He shifts a little on the bed, his dick already hardening. He does this more than he'd like to admit—thinks back to the day he passed the bar, to the moment Hamlin walked into his little party in the mailroom, to the door clicking shut behind him and leaving him and Jimmy alone. The real words Hamlin said don't matter and never did. Jimmy doesn't even remember them. He's had too many dreams about it since then, and he's used it too many times as the _setting_ for—

 

Well, for _this._

 

He slips his hand down his boxers and rubs his thumb over the underside of his cock. Licks his lips and remembers Hamlin's voice. Words Hamlin never said, but he can still _recall_ them. In his mind, Hamlin's inflection is perfect.

 

“ _You're not good enough.”_

 

“ _Completely worthless.”_

 

“ _You know, Jimmy, this is probably the best thing that's happened to me in months. I finally have an excuse to get rid of you. You thought you had a chance here? At HHM? With me? I was doing you a favor, letting you suck my cock. But now? Now I don't have to listen to your pathetic whining or see you lose it in your pants. You disgust me.”_

 

Jimmy's teeth dig into his lower lip and he moves his hand faster on his shaft. The friction burns. It's so fucking good, and he wriggles a little, shoving his boxers all the way down his legs with his free hand.

 

“ _Please,” Jimmy begs._ In his mind, Jimmy can see _himself,_ eyes rimmed red, mouth wet and open, straining at his pants just from Hamlin's words. He doesn't know what he's begging for. He doesn't think he's begging for Hamlin to stop. _“Please, I thought—I wanted to be good, I_ can _be good, let me show you how—”_

 

“ _You want to be good?” Hamlin sneers. “The partners are still upstairs. We all had a meeting after Chuck told us you passed the bar. They all wanted the chance to tell you exactly what you are, but well, my name's on the door. They're still in the meeting room, waiting for me to get back and tell them all about how you begged and cried and proved they were right about you.” Hamlin takes another bite of cake, grimaces, and puts the plate down. “It won't change anything. But I think they deserve something for having to put up with you this long.”_

 

Jimmy's cock leaks over his fingers and he pulls his hand away. He's more worked up than he thought he'd be. He has to slow down, can't let this end too soon, has to get to the part--

 

_He speeds up the fantasy a little. Fast-forwards over the part where Hamlin strides out of the mailroom and Jimmy stands up so quickly he knocks over his stool. Glazes over the empty office, their footsteps echoing loud and accusing through the late evening, the slow hum of the abandoned computers pushing through the thick silence._

 

_Hamlin stops in front of Conference Room B. A thin sliver of light worms its way through the break in the heavy double-doors, illuminating the left half of Hamlin's face in an eerie glow. Jimmy rubs a thumb over his lip, subconsciously, and Hamlin smirks unkindly._

 

“ _Well? Go in.”_

 

Jimmy savors the next part, drinking in the smudged faces of the partners. He remembers them all with perfect clarity, of course, but aside from Hamlin he's never felt quite comfortable bringing them into his fantasy. There are too many chances to slip up, and it feels like a violation. Instead he sees suits draped on familiar bodies. He sees hands and watches and rings. He sees eyes, but the faces are distorted, as if he's looking at them from the bottom of a pool. His eyes burn, too, if he looks too closely or for too long.

 

_Hamlin grabs the back of Jimmy's head, his fingers tangling in Jimmy's hair. Jimmy drops hard to his knees. He doesn't feel a thing. The hand in Jimmy's hair tugs his head back and his mouth drops open as he stares, wide-eyed, at the looming crowd._

 

“ _My whore thinks he's good enough to be a lawyer,” Hamlin sneers. “Thinks a shit degree and scraping out a pass his third try at the bar makes him one of_ us. _” The hand is wrapped around his throat now, or maybe it always has been; Hamlin's left hand is definitely on his shoulder, but he can't place the right one._

 

His mind is drifting. Jimmy drags his nails over his own chest, imagines they're Hamlin's, and shudders. His eyes flutter closed again, his hand slowly moving over his dick, fingertips brushing feather-light over the sensitive head.

 

“ _He needs to be reminded what he is,” Hamlin says, and kicks Jimmy so he falls forward, his forehead bumping against the expensive carpeting. He can see the partners' shadows creeping closer, can hear their curious murmurs. “Just a fuck-hole.”_

 

_The room is cold, suddenly. A draft passes over his bare skin and he feels goosebumps rise on his arms and legs. He shivers, and Hamlin presses a foot on his upper back._

 

“ _Stay still,” Hamlin snaps. “You think you deserve any of this? You don't even deserve this lesson. But I am kind--”_

 

No. Hamlin's not kind. He's not doing Jimmy a favor. It's easier if--

 

“ _You disgust me. You think I want to touch you after the way you behaved? You need to learn your place.”_

 

_His head is jerked up. The hand in his hair isn't Hamlin's; the fingers are too thick, the grip too loose, and Jimmy almost-almost-almost has the name on his tongue before he shoves it back. Then there's a cock pressing against his lips, and he drops his eyes and he sucks._

 

Jimmy slides two fingers into his mouth, licking idly, smirking at the ceiling—this is how he'd play it, if Hamlin had stayed after driving him home. Teasing. Frustrating Hamlin so that he would grab Jimmy's hair and shove his dick down his throat--

 

 _That's not how it is here. The partner drives deep on the first thrust and Jimmy chokes, struggles, until Hamlin's hand comes down hard on his ass and Hamlin snarls, “take it, whore,” and only then does he relax. He's proud of his deep-throating skills, but they're even_ better _in the fantasy, where he doesn't even have the pretense of a gag reflex._

 

From there, well. He's had this fantasy so many times, and he's embellished and enhanced and _improved,_ but he's never been able to script out this part. The part where he's fucked in both ends, over and over again, his ass ruined and dripping and his mouth bruised and covered in come. The fuckings are as hazy as the partners' faces, but afterwards—when they pull out and Jimmy thinks how his hole must look, red and gaping and wet like a girl's—

 

“ _You're disgusting,” Hamlin says. “Look at you, dripping all over the carpet. I can't believe I ever wanted to put my dick in that.”_

 

_Jimmy turns around to face him. His face is flushed red, his lips swollen and glistening with spit and come, his chin covered in mess. He's drooling on the carpet. Hamlin looks completely horrified. “Like I'd want your mouth either. Jesus.”_

 

_The flush deepens, and Jimmy drops his gaze, staring at the ruined carpet. Hamlin will force him to pay to clean it, force him to watch as the crew completes the job, all of them knowing exactly what happened here and looking at him with lust in their eyes._

 

_Hamlin toes him in the stomach, managing to catch a place that isn't sticky with Jimmy's come. He lost track of how many times he came. All without permission. Hamlin will have something to say about that, too, later. “Get up and get yourself cleaned. You smell like a possum-infested whorehouse.”_

 

_Jimmy tries to push himself up. His arms shake and he collapses on himself. He raises a hand, halfway, asking for help. Hamlin laughs derisively._

 

“ _You're fucking kidding me. I'm not going to touch their cumdumpster after it's just been used.”_

 

_Hamlin turns on his heel and leaves._

 

_Just before the door closes, he gets a glimpse of a face—not hazy, not underwater, not a blur. Clear. Painfully._

 

_Chuck's face._

 

\- -

 

Jimmy doesn't want to think about what it means that he comes right after that, burying his face in his arm and shouting, shame burning through him.

 

It probably means nothing.

 

Weirder shit invades his thoughts when he comes.

 

\- -

 

He hates this part.

 

Jimmy masturbates at night for a _reason._ It's almost always enough to send him into a (mostly) dreamless sleep, and he doesn't have to deal with... well.

 

_This._

 

It's late afternoon, and there's no chance he's going to take a nap. He tries to fight it, always tries to fight it, but this time. This time, he's so worn down that he just curls his hand in his blanket, draws his knees up to his chest, and gives in.

 

_He's sitting on Hamlin's couch. He's clean, now, spit and come wiped from his skin in Hamlin's private bathroom. He barely remembers the walk to Hamlin's office, or Hamlin cleaning him with a soft cloth, but he doesn't need to._

 

_In his hands is a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows, the way he likes. He takes a slow, tentative sip, and glances up. Hamlin is kneeling in front of him, rubbing his thighs, looking at him with concerned blue eyes. The room is dark except for the lamp on Hamlin's desk and it throws his face into sharp relief. His face looks almost skeletal. Jimmy feels his mouth go dry. He takes another sip._

 

“ _Good?” Hamlin asks. Jimmy thinks. He nods, slowly. There's a blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders. He snuggles into it, burrowing into the warmth like it can swallow him whole, protect him from... He's not sure what. Not from Hamlin, he doesn't think. Something is outside Hamlin's office. Something whimpers._

 

_He doesn't realize it's him until Hamlin is sitting next to him, pulling Jimmy in close to his chest, stroking his hair softly._

 

“ _Was I—did I—” Jimmy tries. His voice is hoarse and broken and he hates himself for it._

 

“ _You were so good,” Hamlin says. “You were perfect. Fuck, watching you like that—you have no idea, Jimmy.”_

 

_Jimmy turns his face into Hamlin's shoulder and lets out a soft, dry sob._

 

“ _Sh. It's okay, Jimmy. I'm here.”_

 

_\- -  
_

 

Jimmy clutches his pillow to his chest. There's a spring poking into his side, right above his kidney, and he's shaking. _Fuck._ He shouldn't have--

 

He throws the pillow across his office. It knocks a pile of folders off his desk and falls on the end of his bed, where it stares at him accusingly.

 

The pillow is right, he thinks. Jerking off to fantasies he's not entirely sure he even _wants_ is not gong to make Hamlin stop ignoring him. It just proves Jimmy's as pathetic as he's always thought. No; if Jimmy wants Hamlin to _face him,_ he's the one who's going to have to force the issue.

 

He cleans himself off with some tissues and a few squirts of Purell, finds a clean pair of boxers and a mostly-clean pair of jeans, and pulls a green polo shirt over his head. Mostly presentable. Good enough. He wishes he could do something about the shaking, though, or the fact that he definitely looks like a complete mess. Hamlin's going to take one look at him and wonder why he ever bothered.

 

Jimmy grabs his keys before he can talk himself out of it. He makes it over to Hamlin's house on sheer bravado and doesn't realize until he's pulling onto Hamlin's street that it's not even five yet, and Hamlin's probably not even _home,_ and this is _colossally stupid,_ but--

 

Hamlin's car is in the driveway, glittering immaculately in the desert sun, and Jimmy doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed.

 

\- -

 

Hamlin stares at the chicken thawing in his microwave. It's early for him to be home; it feels wrong almost, but he feels physically and emotionally drained and he's the boss. So he sent his notes back with his associate, who didn't even ask for an explanation, and did a much-needed grocery run before returning home.

 

He hates the quiet, but he needs to _think,_ and the past week has been such a distraction that it's starting to affect his work. He's looking forward to a quiet dinner, a couple drinks, and _solitude._

 

So he's not even _remotely_ surprised when the doorbell rings and he finds Jimmy standing on his front step, looking angry and distressed and possibly a little feverish.

 

“Fuck you, Howard,” is how Jimmy opens. Hamlin stares at him.

 

“What?”

 

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Jimmy repeats, and like that, he's off, mouth running faster than his brain, calling Hamlin all manner of creative epithets and reserving no few for _himself_. It takes a minute for Hamlin to catch up, for the shock to lift and for his voice to return, but Jimmy just runs right over him, accusing Hamlin of toying with him again and laughing at him and--

 

“And I don't _care_ that you don't want me, I don't care that you _never_ wanted me, just _please,_ tell me, and I'll go, I'll leave you alone, you'll never see me—”

 

Hamlin can't get a word in. He tries. He tries to tell Jimmy that he's _wrong,_ it's not that at _all,_ but Jimmy can't or won't listen.

 

So he does the only thing he can.

 

He grabs the front of Jimmy's shirt in one hand and a fistful of his hair in the other and kisses him, hard, right there in the doorway.


End file.
